In the sandstone canyons of Mesa Verde, Anasazi ruins populate the crevices in cliffs with time. Eight hundred years have passed since daily life went on within their doors and windows. Now in Spruce Tree House, I am walking with my camera taking photographs of walls still standing.
There’s a Kiva reconstructed in the courtyard, its Puebloan floor below modified in order to alleviate the sacred nature of its recess. Through a hole on top, I am descending to the shadows, yet so numinous, still so hallowed. In its depths I see beginnings on the walls. Within its presence I breathe deeply in again.
And as I climb into contemporary air, I find this newborn dream developing.